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My eyes make pictures, when they are shut.

And so, his senses gradually wrapt In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark; That singest like an angel in the clouds.

For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed, And bade it blossom there.

A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.

A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut.

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

O what a loud and fearful shriek was there! . . . Ah me! they view'd beneath an hireling's sword Fallen Kosciusco.

Perfect freedom is reserved for the man who lives by his own work and in that work does what he wants to do.

Friendship is a sheltering tree.

. . . So often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow.

I never think of the future--it comes soon enough.

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

While many a glowworm in the shade Lights up her love torch.

Never, believe me, Appear the Immortals, Never alone.

How inimitably graceful children are before they learn to dance.

Treading beneath their feet all visible things, As steps that upwards to their Father's throne Lead gradual.

Our own heart, and not other men's opinion, forms our true honor. -Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Those holies of themselves a shape As of an arbor took.